


Out of the Twilight

by HotTopic97



Category: Black Lagoon (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Dark Character, Electrocution, Gen, Gun Violence, Horror, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Roberta's Blood Trail, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 20:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16070480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HotTopic97/pseuds/HotTopic97
Summary: His eyes widen at the sight before him.There's a man's face right in front of him, frozen in an eternal state of agony. The eyes are missing; all that's left are two gaping, bloody sockets spurting out dark red liquid on the otherwise unmarred flesh of his face.There's a long, grisly slit across the throat, more red gushing out of the gruesome wound in sickeningly thick rivers. Below that are even more wounds. Wounds that came from a knife litter the upper half of his body. In fact, there's not a mere inch free of stab wounds or vital red in that area.One of the wounds has the offending weapon smashed inside. A bloodied hand clutches the handle in a death-grip, while another hand, soaked in the sticky liquid, is settled on the right breast of the man below him.This man is dead.His captor obviously had experience in self-defense and fighting. Delivering all those blows, whether with his fists or with a weapon shooting electric currents, on him was enough proof.Yet here he was, bleeding from his eye sockets, mouth, throat, and multiple areas on his chest...all from a knife...





	Out of the Twilight

His eyes widen at the sight before him.

There's a man's face right in front of him, frozen in an eternal state of agony. The eyes are missing; all that's left are two gaping, bloody sockets spurting out dark red liquid on the otherwise unmarred flesh of his face. 

There's a long, grisly slit across the throat, more red gushing out of the gruesome wound in sickeningly thick rivers. Below that are even more wounds. Wounds that came from a knife litter the upper half of his body. In fact, there's not a mere inch free of stab wounds or vital red in that area.

One of the wounds has the offending weapon smashed inside. A bloodied hand clutches the handle in a death-grip, while another hand, soaked in the sticky liquid, is settled on the right breast of the man below him. 

_...what...what is...this..._

_..._

Sensation and awareness start to trickle back to him. 

His lungs are on fire. The surroundings not only _reek_ of the man's blood, but also stale vomit and human waste. His heart is slamming against his chest at an erratic and irregular rate, with the force of a vicious fist.

\---

 _His captor's boot collides with his stomach, effectively knocking breath out of his lungs, as well as sending his back to the cold, hard wall of his cell. He's given no time to recover, as seconds later, his face is grabbed and pulled up so he's eye-to-eye with the other_ _man. He speaks to him, the words biting and harsh, although they're of a language he hasn't any knowledge of._

_They stare at each other for a few moments, no sound but both of their breathing in the small, musty room. A rough and burly hand suddenly grasps his face and slams it against the wall with as much force as he can muster._

\---

He remembers...vividly. That man...that man, with deeply tanned skin. That man...with meaty, calloused hands rivaling that of a beast...with narrowed eyes and a cruel manner of speaking...

One of his favorite torture methods. He seemed to enjoy giving him lasting headaches and concussions. The latter would show him white for a few moments and leave spots that would not leave no matter how much he tried to rub them away.

He's not suffering from any of those at the moment. Regardless, the dead, bloodied body is sickening enough. Enough to make the iron grip on the knife vanish into nonexistence. 

\---

 _The taser meets the flesh under his chin, and the reaction is immediate. Electric currents burn through every fiber of his being, and he loses all control of himself. As he's crumpling to the floor, he feels a distinct_  crack  _of what he's sure is the bridge of his nose breaking._

 _And it_  hurts.  _It hurts, so he yells it out as tears prick his eyes. One of them grabs him by his trademark teal-colored tie and slams an empty bottle of alcohol on the right side of his face. Glass shards cut into the skin, blood splattering onto whatever it can reach. The force sends him to the hard floor, and he feels more fiery volts of electricity shock him into submission._

_Then he's beaten. Beaten as though he were an animal._

_And all he can do is convulse and yell out how much it hurts.  
_

_Words are out of his reach. And so is what little self-defense he has._

_His chances of getting out of here are even more distant._

\---

Wait...

He knows. He knows this man.

He  _knows_ thisman.

He's seen his face. It always carried seething rage and disgust at the same time whenever he came down to interrogate him. He always yelled to his face what he wanted to know from him, and he never hesitated to use violent means. He never had the slightest hesitation to pummel him...to _shock_ him...

...to  _break_ him. 

This is the same man who harmed him...mercilessly,  _senselessly_ , all for what he needed...

This...no, this can't be possible. It just _can't_ be.

It's not...it's not even...

...but it is.

This man is _dead._

His captor obviously had experience in self-defense and fighting. Delivering all those blows, whether with his fists or with a weapon shooting electric currents, on him was enough proof.

Yet here he was, bleeding from his eye sockets, mouth, throat, and multiple areas on his chest...all from a knife...

_Knife..._

Knife...

He pulls the knife out of his captor's breast and tosses it away. Its blade is slick with blood. Hardly an inch of it shines its original silver color.

His eyes clench shut, hands uselessly gripping both temples. His breathing becomes more labored and panicked. An intense wave of nausea and rising bile force his shaking body to crash on top of the lifeless, bloody one. 

\---

_A moan is let loose from him. It originates of exhaustion and sickness. The amount of sleep he's gotten has decreased significantly, replaced with beating after beating. The daily necessities of food and water have become nonexistent. All the more sapping what little physical strength he has._

_That, and he'd just vomitted on the floor. The migraine he has today is so bad it didn't sit well with his stomach. It still isn't. The bright lighbulb above his head isn't helping things._

_Neither is the redheaded man's obvious contempt._

_But it's no matter to him. He's still coming towards him, with a devilish glint in his eye, stroking himself and aiming his hardened manhood at his involuntarily salivating mouth._

\--- 

He's thrown back into the real world, the all too familiar sounds of gunshots and screaming responsible. 

He screams; a terrified, anguished sound nearly tearing his throat at the seams. His breathing becomes quicker, more shallow, and shorter. He grips his head tighter; the telltale throbbing of an incoming migraine has come yet again. His chest is hurting too, and he's starting to feel dizzy. But he can't find it in him to care about those factors. 

He knows someone is going to come down here eventually. He knows whoever that is will see the body occupying the cell. They're going to see that their comrade is dead. _Dead_ , bleeding out, with stab wounds and slits all along his body. 

Then they'll get angry. They'll immediately know who to place the blame on. And then...

_And then..._

Something else happens. It's an occurrence that he has forced to become acquainted with.

He instantly recognizes it as the grate above his cell being removed. 

Somehow, despite his physical condition, he's put on autopilot. 

First, his eyes widen, and he jumps back from the dead body. Second, in his distorted vision, he spots a pistol mere feet away from him, tossed carelessly against the wall. 

And thirdly, just as he hears the sound of boots smashing to the floor, he frantically scrambles to the weapon. He grabs it with shaky hands just as he hears whoever just barged in swear abrasively. 

With his index finger on the trigger, he aims at his target...

...

Who it is he's aiming at prevents him from performing the final step. 

" _Rock!_ "

...

Dark skin...glasses...green vest...coming towards him and ripping the gun from his frail grip. 

" _Dutch?_ ", he inquires. 

The other man merely offers his hand to help him up.

For a long moment, he doesn't anything other than stare at Dutch's outstretched hand. Besides the action going on, there's no noise other than his quickened, shallow breaths.

He hardly believes this moment is real. He'd thought for a long while that he wouldn't be found. That his streak of luck had ended all those weeks ago at his own apartment. 

He thought he would die. A very slow, cold, cruel, and miserable death at that. 

And yet...here is Dutch, two feet away from him, offering him rescue. And where there's Dutch, Revy can't be far behind. He knows she'll be pissed when he's returned home...

Or  _if..._

He feels a calloused hand pull him up.

_He's pulled up by the arm to his feet and given an uppercut. Then his head is promptly shoved into the wall._

_\---_

_The man's calloused hand grips his arm and roughly pulls his barely-conscious body forward. Crouching down, he pulls down both his pants and boxers. Both hands then come up to grip his buttocks and spread them apart._

\---

He yells out and pulls his arm away. He presses his back against the wall in fear, head bowing down, shaking arms uselessly trying to defend himself from an impending blow. 

He can hear the guy shout back at him. What it is, he can't and doesn't bother trying to figure out. He's seen the dead body, and he's most likely going to join him in the void. 

Even though it's fruitless--not that he cares--it's an automatic, trained-in process. Tearfully begging and pleading for his life, he means.

Even despite the hopeless situation, despite the pain he's gone through on pretty much a daily basis, he still somehow values his life.

The last thing he remembers is the man saying to him...what he believes is, "I'm sorry about this". Then what he's just able to recognize as a fist collides with his temple, hard enough to send him into unconsciousness. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to fight back against a really bad case of writer's block. As you can see, it's not really the best oneshot because of me still lagging. :(
> 
> R&R anyway? <:,D


End file.
